A Season of Angels Page 0,38

the package was huge. She was curious herself. Gloria was very good at remembering Timmy on his birthday and Christmas, but she generally sent a check, claiming he should save for his college education.

"I don't think it'd do any harm to open it up," Jody said, curious herself.

"I've got the scissors all ready," Timmy said, racing into the kitchen.

"Don't run with scissors in your hand," she warned.

"I'm not a kid!" Timmy chided, walking back with exaggeratedly slow steps.

"Sorry," Jody said, smiling to herself.

The box had been carefully packaged, as if it contained something of exceptional value. Once the tape had been cut away they were able to peel back the cardboard lid. Timmy immediately starting digging when they discovered the box was filled with Styrofoam packing balls. The material flew in every direction. She laughed, watching her son virtually attack the present.

He bent over the top, his feet six inches off the ground. "There are a bunch of smaller boxes inside," he called, lifting out the first of what proved to be several.

Jody lined them up on the coffee table and Timmy opened the largest one first. "What's this?" he asked, bringing out a trophy.

Jody was puzzled herself.

"Look, there's a letter in here for you."

Jody took the envelope and ripped it open.

Dearest Jody and Timmy,

You're were right, Jody. Jeff is dead and it's time I accepted as much. Forgive an old woman who can't bear to believe that her only son is gone. The truth was too painful to accept. Painful for you and Timmy too, I realize.

It came to me the other day that now Timmy's growing up, he might be interested in having the things that once belonged to his father. Jeff's childhood treasures are his now and don't belong to a grieving mother. Take them, and treasure them, but most of all, remember Jeff.

"What's the trophy for?" Timmy asked, turning it upside down and examining the bottom. "This is weird, the way they put it together."

Jody could barely speak for the tears in her throat. "Your father won that when he was twelve," she said, holding onto the statue with both hands. "For soccer."

"My dad played soccer?"

Jody nodded.

"I didn't know that."

Jeff was wonderfully athletic, the same way Timmy was, but he'd concentrated on football and track in high school and college.

"Wow," Timmy said, "look at this. It's really old."

"It's your dad's report card from when he was in the first grade."

"He was smart, wasn't he?"

"Very smart."

"You were too, weren't you, Mom?"

She nodded.

Timmy was hurriedly opening one box and then the next. "This stuff is really neat. I can keep it, can't I, forever and ever?"

"Of course."

"I'm never going to forget my dad. Never," he vowed, sitting back on his legs and releasing a slow, uneven sigh. "You know, Mom, it might not be such a good idea for you to get me another dad. Not when I already have one. It was just that until now he was a face in a picture you keep by the fireplace. But he was really a neat guy, wasn't he?"

"Yes, sweetheart," she agreed, "he was someone very special."

Timmy's eyes grew serious. "Then it'd be wrong to look for another dad."

Chapter 8

Monica was in a tizzy. Chet had seen her standing outside of the Blue Goose, and knew she'd sought him out. Her first thought was that she should adamantly deny everything. That, however, would be a lie and she prided herself on her honesty.

"Couldn't stay away, could you?" he said in that impertinent way of his.

"I'm sure you're mistaken," she snapped. The buzz of traffic zoomed past her as she stiffly stood on the curb, waiting for the light to change.

Chet laughed, the sound mingling with those from the street and the busy holiday shoppers. The signal changed and she remained frozen, unable to move with the others.

"I imagine that's as close to the truth as I'm likely to get from you," he said, and gripping hold of her elbow, escorted her across the street. He didn't tell her where he was taking her and she didn't ask. Although she had long legs, she had trouble keeping up with his brisk pace.

He steered her into Woolworth's and over to the lunch counter.

"What are we doing here?" she demanded, disliking the assumptions he was making.

He ignored her and slipped into a booth. She would have brought attention to herself if she'd continued standing so she uneasily claimed the seat across from him.

"You hungry?" he asked nonchalantly, reaching for the yellowed